


Bodie Lost

by hutchynstarsk



Category: The Professionals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 02:08:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>With British beta thanks to: <span class="ljuser ljuser-name_anna060957"><a href="http://anna060957.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://anna060957.livejournal.com/"><strong>anna060957</strong></a></span>.<br/> All mistakes are my own.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Bodie Lost

**Author's Note:**

> With British beta thanks to: [](http://anna060957.livejournal.com/profile)[**anna060957**](http://anna060957.livejournal.com/).  
>  All mistakes are my own.

 

**Bodie Lost**

by Allie

 

 

A man like Bodie was hard to break.

Cowley stared down at his agent: his best agent, and his favourite, even if he could never admit that to anyone but himself. This was certainly not how he had expected to see Bodie spending the rest of his life.

The straitjacket was clean and white. Bodie’s eyes were lifeless. He lay on his side, nearly asleep, but as unrecognising as when he had been last properly awake. There simply seemed to be no one home in there after all.

 _We’ll look after you, lad._ Those were the words Cowley had spoken.

Not that Bodie had heard.

Cowley couldn’t know, of course, exactly what they’d done to him. It was impossible to know for certain, unless Bodie recovered enough to give a report.

The doctors had warned him that might never happen.

What was clear was that the villains had skipped all the sorts of things Bodie was prepared for—psychological and physical tortures. No. They had gone right for the drugs.

Drugs of all sorts, pumped into his agent, inducing paranoia, terror, extremely realistic hallucinations and other horrors perhaps only Bodie would ever know. Even the doctors could not be quite clinical about it.

They said it was a miracle he’d survived.

#

Doyle remembered just what it had been like, bursting into that basement, and NOT finding Bodie.

It had been their best information. The man they’d got it out of hadn’t been lying. He wasn’t in any shape to lie.

Cowley had been there, given his approval. He’d just watched whilst Doyle beat it out of the man.

Usually, they preferred to intimidate and wait. But there had been no time. With Bodie missing for eight days, and this their only lead, and the man trying to play tough. Doyle had beaten him—and beaten him, and made it clear he would beat him to within an inch of his life.

He took no pleasure in that. Now that his hands really were lethal weapons—really had killed once with a single blow—he had to be careful. But for Bodie, he had done it. He’d let the man think he was mad, and that their boss was going to watch. And when that hadn’t even been enough, he’d kept hurting the man till he told.

Doyle would have to live with that.

It would, however, have been worth it if they’d found Bodie.

Drugs, restraints, a bed with a bare mattress and handcuffs. None of them in use.

The captors had cleared out. And Bodie was gone.

The heart had gone out of Doyle then and there. Because Bodie wasn’t invincible after all.

At that point, Doyle was certain he’d never see Bodie again, at least not alive. They’d killed him, disposed of his body in all the cruelly inventive ways known to gangsters, spies, terrorists, and governments.

All CI5 had left of a case was the man in custody—or rather, in hospital, with a guard standing by in case he recovered enough to attempt escape.

Ray remembered the last time he saw Bodie: cheerful, smooth-faced, grinning, a cocky bounce in his step, talking about his big plans for the weekend.

Now there was nothing left to do but find his body.

#

Except they hadn’t.

Three days later, they’d found _him_ : alive, wandering the countryside like a wild man. His SAS training had kept him hidden. Whatever had gone wrong in his brain, something still worked: he’d known to stay hidden, stay alive.

He nearly killed Jax with his bare hands, even as dehydrated as he was.

Doyle hadn’t been there. He’d been searching with another team, miles in the other direction.

When they’d made the call, Doyle broke the speed limit and nearly his neck to get there.

But it didn’t matter. Bodie didn’t recognise him, either.

#

Cowley watched his agent pace.

“Well, when _can_ I see him, sir?” Doyle strode back and forth in front of Cowley as if he couldn’t still his restless energy. Once in a while, he sent his boss a fierce glare. As if it was Cowley’s fault.

It made it easier to play the hard man. To conceal his own concerns and fears.

“You may see him if and when the doctors tell you you may, Doyle,” Cowley rasped. Doyle’s head snapped up and, far from jolting him back to purposeful anger or any other useful emotion, Cowley was appalled to see a glimmer of tears in Doyle’s eyes.

“I ought to be able to help.”

“Oh? Do you know better than the doctors, then, Doyle?”

“No. But if I could just talk to him— Let him know I’m still here.”

“Bodie is beyond any of us now, Doyle.” Drugged for his own safety, not to mention the safety of his attendants.

The last time they allowed those drugs to wear off, he nearly got out of his straitjacket.

#

It took longer than Doyle would have liked, but in the end, he found a way to see Bodie. A mixture of bribes, threats, and the small print, and eventually, he found himself outside Bodie’s cell, near midnight, near the end of one shift, when Bodie would have the least amount of drugs in his system.

Doyle shifted from foot to foot, unexpectedly nervous in the cold, bleak, empty hall. No one was making any noise; the hall lights were dim, the room lights out.

Keys jangled as the guard handled them nervously. He nearly dropped them. Glaring at the guard, who didn’t look old enough to shave, Doyle grabbed the keys and opened the door himself. He thrust them back into the young man’s hands.

“Need I remind you to keep watch?” he said acidly. The young man shook his head, tongue-tied, and stepped back from the door. From the outside, Doyle flicked on the light. It showed the cell stark, bare, and padded inside.

Doyle heaved, the door opened, and he stepped in. Two long steps, and he stood by Bodie’s mattress. He crouched quickly, so they were closer to being face to face.

Bodie lay on his side in his straitjacket, curled slightly, back to the wall on his unmade mattress. He looked as he had one of only times they’d let Doyle look in at him through the small window. The other time, Doyle didn’t like to think about: Bodie had been beating himself against the wall as if he meant to destroy it—or himself.

Now, Doyle lowered a hand tentatively to his partner’s broad, white-clad shoulder. “Bodie. Mate?”

Eyelids flicked up. Bodie, awake. Doyle looked for some sign of recognition as that familiar but hazy blue gaze wandered haphazardly over him.

“It’s me. Doyle.”

Eyes stopped roving. Went straight to his gaze, and locked.

_Bodie._

Doyle could hardly breathe. They were wrong. _They were wrong!_ Bodie was inside there, somewhere.

Hardly thinking about what he did, knowing he could be the world’s greatest fool and yet unable to turn now and just walk away, he pulled the knife from the back of his boot and began to cut open Bodie’s straitjacket.

Whilst Doyle worked, Bodie did not take his gaze off him. He held still, except for when he turned to make it easier. He didn’t say a word, and now, Doyle didn’t either.

What had been meant as an unauthorised visit was now a full-blown rescue operation. Maybe it had been all along; he could lie to himself about why he’d taken the knife in his boot, but he had taken it.

“Up we go.” Doyle slid the knife away quickly, and helped to heft Bodie upright.

Sitting awkwardly, now clad only in loose-fitting white trousers, Bodie faced him. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands; they lay useless in his lap. But at least they weren’t trying to strangle the life out of Doyle. He looked at Doyle, and Doyle thought he read the faintest tendril of a question. _‘What do we do next?’_

Doyle noticed his partner’s nails needed a trim. They weren’t taking good enough care of him...

“Now we get out of here,” Doyle informed him. He’d never meant anything more. “You’ll have to help me. I can’t carry you.”

If Bodie had been himself, he’d have grinned—even faintly—no matter the circumstances, no matter how grim. Because he _could_ carry Doyle, and liked to remind him of that fact from time to time.

_Arms snaking round his waist from behind, a sneak attack, lifting him triumphantly in the air, crowing and chortling whilst Doyle sputtered and protested and tried to get down without hurting his over-exuberant partner._

_Once, Bodie had even carried Doyle on his back, as if Doyle was his little brother who wanted a piggyback ride. He’d look rather smug and proud of himself, but also so very fond. Doyle, for his part, had rather enjoyed being carried around, having Bodie take him wherever he wanted to go like a packhorse._

But today, Bodie didn’t smile at all. He reached for Doyle’s arms and allowed himself to be helped up. He walked on his own, a bit unsteadily: not the proud, ex-SAS man Doyle knew. But he was walking, leaning on Doyle only a little for support, his hand gripping Doyle’s arm hard. Even though it hurt, that connection made Doyle feel a little better.

He knew he could—no, he _would_ —be in big trouble for this.

The young guard gaped at the sight of them. He rushed forward with a whispered oath. “What do you think you’re doing? You can’t! He’s dangerous! I’ll get fired.”

Doyle chuckled nastily. “You’ll get fired anyway, sonny boy. Anybody who can be bribed like you can, has to go.”

“But—you said you wouldn’t tell!”

“I don’t have to, do I?” He turned his back on the boy and took Bodie out by the back entrance, waiting, holding the door ajar. It was how the boy had let him in: by turning off the alarm and opening the door.

Doyle remembered standing on the cold pavement so recently, shivering in the night air, watching his breath fog, wondering if the guard had lost his nerve. Now he was taking Bodie out by these same steps, and his priorities had changed completely. A short visit wasn’t all they needed. He had to get Bodie out, take him away, and disappear. Until Bodie was better.

After that, well, he’d take his punishment. He wasn’t a kid anymore, to try to wrangle his way out of trouble. Cowley could have his ID and gun if he wanted, but Bodie was _not_ spending the rest of his life in that hole!

Though struggling with coordination, Bodie managed to fold himself into the front seat of the car. He sat there, staring ahead. At no point had he been uncooperative or seemed dangerous, but he also definitely wasn’t acting like himself.

Doyle hopped into the car and started the engine. He pulled away from the kerb.

He kept casting little glances at Bodie when he could spare the attention. At no point did his partner’s expression seem to change. He was sunken inward, as if deep in thought... or just not there.

When he could spare a hand, Doyle reached over and gave his partner a quick squeeze on the shoulder. “All right, mate?” No answer. But then, he hadn’t expected one. Doyle drove faster.

He that Bodie sat upright in the car seat, not slumped or falling over, even when Doyle took a corner a bit fast. Despite his look of not being there, his muscles tensed and relaxed to keep him in the same position as Doyle drove. It was such a natural thing Doyle hadn’t given it a thought at first, but now it heartened him to realise it. Someone who truly wasn’t there wouldn’t retain the awareness to avoid being tossed around in his seat.

They finally pulled to a halt outside Bodie’s flat, and Doyle leapt from the car. “All right, mate, hop it. We’ve got to get you changed, packed, and away before they realise you’re gone.”

Or had, they, already? How long till the attendants checked, or went to give him the next drug round? It was morning, wasn’t it? They let them sleep the night through whenever possible, so if the lad hadn’t told... Well, a few hours, anyway. Enough time to go to ground.

Bodie got out of the car readily enough and followed Doyle. Ray still had a key to Bodie’s flat on his key ring next to his own, so it was no trouble getting in and re-setting the alarms; he could do it in his sleep. He glanced at Bodie once, saw him looking around, as if at an unfamiliar landscape, but at least one that interested him vaguely now.

Doyle decided it was best to talk to Bodie as if he understood exactly. “Find an outfit, or I’ll pick one for you,” he threatened. “You can’t go traipsing around in those hospital duds.”

Leaving Bodie to decide on his next course of action, Doyle grabbed a bag and began to throw clothes in. There was no time for anything fancy. Personal effects would have to be left behind. He’d be lucky if he remembered everything essential.

He zipped the bag, blew curls out of his face, and looked up. Bodie was in the doorway. He stood watching, a blank expression on his face.

“Come on!” snapped Doyle. “All right, you can wear this.” He grabbed a pair of cream trousers and a black rollneck. Then he ran to find Bodie’s shoes and leather jacket. He didn’t think he ought to take Bodie’s gun. The kidnappers were still out there, but Bodie could be a danger to himself, or Doyle, if he wasn’t any more aware than this.

“Do I have to do everything?” asked Doyle. He flung down the shoes, dropped the jacket on Bodie’s bed, and began to help his partner out of his hospital clothes. Bodie flinched from the hands, his muscles hardening, and he swept a powerful arm down and knocked Doyle away. Doyle met his hard, glaring expression, still mostly blank but now stubborn with it.

He gentled his tone. “Come on, mate. It’s just me, and we’ve got to get you changed. You don’t want someone suspecting, do you?” He straightened and looked into Bodie’s eyes.

Once again, Bodie’s gaze locked onto his. Slowly, the tension drained from him.

Doyle reached for his shirt again, and this time, Bodie let him remove it, even helped a bit, though his hands were still clumsy and he seemed only half aware. Doyle’s eyes flashed at the sight of bruised arms covered with needle marks. But he made an effort to push that anger down. Bodie might be more aware than he realised, and he didn’t need to think Doyle was angry with him or he might retreat further or grow even more stubborn.

“Good lad.” Doyle wished he’d picked a button-up top, but Bodie didn’t have many, and it was too late now. Between them, they wrestled him into the rollneck. Finally, Bodie pulled it on the rest of the way himself, hands snaking out of sleeves, head popping through the top. He blinked. His hair stood up for a moment, then fell back to its usual place; hard to mess up, Bodie’s hair. Doyle laughed a little in spite of himself. It was good to be worrying about these little things, instead of that he might never be near his partner again.

Fortunately, Bodie was a little more with it for his trousers; he was able to change them himself. He had needle marks on his legs, too, though not as many. Bodie fastened his trousers himself, moving now more like the competent, quick-moving soldier he’d been.

Doyle steered him to the bed, to sit, and handed him his shoes. Then he dashed out to the kitchen. He threw together some haphazard food items from Bodie’s cupboards. No one had completely cleaned them out. The perishables were gone, because they’d have rotted, but there were staples in the cupboard: tea, instant coffee, biscuits, dry pasta and tinned foods such as baked beans, corned beef, and stew. He threw everything into another bag, zipped it up, and left it by the door. Then he found two bottles, filled them with water, and added them to the pile before re-zipping.

“Bodie? Ready?” he called, returning to the bedroom.

Bodie’s shoes were tied and he sat upright, as if at parade rest, except sitting. Doyle thought—or imagined?—a gleam in his eyes.

“Good.” Doyle gripped his shoulder, gave it a light shake. “Jacket, and let’s go. Come on.” He steered Bodie to his feet and into his jacket. “Er—you should probably have a drink of water, mate,” he realised out loud. “Wash the drugs from your system. And do you need the loo?” He glanced at Bodie.

With no reaction, he would have to guess for the both of them. He fetched Bodie a large glass of water, waited whilst he drank it, then had one himself. He showed Bodie the bathroom and pointed to the toilet. He left when Bodie turned to it and unzipped. He knew what he was doing there, at least.

Bodie forgot to wash his hands, but at that point, Doyle didn’t care. He just wanted to get them both out of there. He kept wondering when he’d hear the sirens. Any second, probably. “You carry this one, mate.” He handed Bodie the sack of clothes, which wasn’t quite as heavy as the one with food and water.

Bodie shouldered the bag without complaint. Doyle grabbed his, and they went. He needed a few changes of clothes for himself as well. If he didn’t take them, he’d have to buy new clothes, and the more he showed his face, the better chance they’d be tracked down.

He drove over to his flat. Once again, Bodie rode as if he were completely with it, instead of away somewhere locked in his head. He rode as if it was any day at work and they were in a hurry to get somewhere. Only instead of bantering or criticising Doyle’s driving style, he was absolutely, utterly silent.

“Could get used to you like this,” said Doyle, because they always joked about it when things were at their worst. But the joke fell flat in the silence in the car. “Shit,” said Doyle, and hit the steering wheel with his palm. He was surprised to feel his eyes getting wet. There was no time for that!

He hauled up to the kerb. “Right, you can stay here and wait if you want.” He flung himself from the car and dashed up the steps to his flat.

Behind him, he heard footsteps running: Bodie, backing him up, like always. Did he understand, at all, what was going on? Doyle glanced back and saw Bodie’s concentrating face on. He was running all out.

_I forget. He takes his cues from me now._

Bodie flattened himself against the wall next to the door.

“It’s all right, there’s no fire.” Doyle caught his shoulder and gave it a shake. He entered the flat more calmly, and was pleased to see Bodie follow suit. Bodie’s flat, blue gaze darted around the room, and he stopped in the middle of the kitchen, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He looked lost, but Doyle had no time to worry about that now. He grabbed what he could of clothes, and some extra food and water. He flung one of the packs over his shoulder and hefted the other into Bodie’s waiting arms.

They left the flat, and drove off.

#

“Rewind. Let me see that again.” Cowley made an impatient gesture, scowling through his thick glasses at the projection. He watched the screen avidly as his obedient operative rewound. There it was, again. The tape played: grainy security footage from a bank. It showed Doyle with his distinctive curls and super-confident walk. He strode to the counter and spoke to the receptionist.

But Doyle wasn’t what interested Cowley, not at the moment. It was his partner beside him. His supposedly near-catatonic partner.

Bodie wore what could only be described as his usual attire, and he was walking like a normal man, except that he followed and mirrored his partner more closely than normal, going with him up to the bank window instead of hanging back to give him privacy as would normally be done. Except, perhaps, by those two: Bodie did have a tendency to hang on Doyle at times, to tease him or distract him out of a bad mood.

There were definitely differences. But not as many as he’d feared. Doyle had done the right thing. Whatever care Bodie was getting in the hospital, despite everything the experts had said to Cowley and that he had been forced to believe, Doyle had seen otherwise. Doyle had known better, and for once, he truly had.

Bodie didn’t need to be locked up. He needed to be by his partner’s side, come hell or high water, or on the run.

“All right. Shut it down. I’ve seen enough,” said Cowley, motioning impatiently. He was scowling as he left the room. He’d quash the police or the hospital looking for them. Not that he didn’t think Doyle could hide better than the average man, even with a semi-functional Bodie in tow. But better safe than sorry. Then Cowley would find them and keep an eye on them until such time as his intervening seemed optimal, necessary, or advisable.

“Get me Dr Brooks,” he told Betty, and she began to dial. He scowled at the wall. He’d always known, he supposed, that if he lost one of his two top agents, he’d lose both. But perhaps it had not come to that yet.

The conversation with Dr Brooks was interesting... illuminating. When Cowley inquired casually whether Bodie was capable of changing clothes, going on the run, and being perceived as normal, mostly-functional, the doctor was adamant: Bodie would be destructive and violent to himself or others. He was uncooperative and incoherent, living in a dream world without any sense of reality.

And yet Cowley had seen a very different picture.

After that he explained his position, and the situation, to Dr Brooks and forbid him to make any attempts to return Bodie to hospital care.

He set Jax and Murphy to finding Bodie and Doyle.

The first few days revealed nothing, but they would keep looking, keep digging.

Cowley sat back to wait. They would be back: he believed it because he wanted to believe it.

But every week, at least once, he replayed the grainy security tape of the lads in the bank, and told himself he wasn’t imagining it.

They _would_ be back.

 

 

 

 

<<<>>>

 


End file.
